April 7, 1994, marked the start of the Rwandan genocide against the Tutsi ethnic group. I was there. Initially naive, I eventually pieced everything together, especially when my parents were gone, leaving my 14-year-old sister and me on our own. For survivors, this horrific event remains vivid decades later.

At first, I couldn’t understand why we, the Tutsis, 14% of the Rwandan population, were being targeted and murdered by the majority ethnic group Hutu (85%). It made no sense when my mother desperately packed a few belongings and bundled us children in layers of clothing, while our Hutu neighbors who were yet to be radicalized into killers, remained safe. I saw a gust of smoke from Tutsi houses burning on the other side of the hill adjacent to our home. The truth soon became clear in my 10-year-old mind – that I was Tutsi, and being Tutsi was a problem. It was now considered a crime punishable by death while being Hutu granted a free pass to life.

When the bloodshed spread to my hometown of Butare, my family and other Tutsis were directed by the Bourgoumestre (Mayor) to seek refuge at the soccer field and a fenced brick compound located at the commune office. A commune was a government administrative entity, similar in size to a US county, and was headed by a Bourgoumestre or Mayor. Hundreds of us gathered at these locations, unaware of the danger that lay ahead.

A few hours after we arrived at the mayor’s office, a group of pro-government militiamen, soldiers, and police in uniform stormed the brick compound where we were sheltering. They began slaughtering the crowd with traditional weapons like machetes, axes, and clubs – the victims were mostly women and children. My father and other Tutsi men had already been killed before we reached the mayor’s office, as they were primarily targeted over the women.

As the militia invaded, they arrived in cargo trucks with metal racks, chanting “Exterminate the Tutsis!” I was inside the fenced brick compound at the commune office with my mother and three sisters. Sensing the danger, my mother pushed me deeper into the dense, panicked crowd of women, likely to shield me from the horrific scenes unfolding at the entrance, where the militia had already begun attacking those nearest to them. Eventually, it was my turn, and the militia struck me hard on the back of my shoulder with a heavy object. I fell down as the taller women in front of me collapsed on top of me, leaving me buried and presumed dead among the piles of bodies.

I later learned the militia conserved their bullets, seeing no need to waste them on the non-resisting women and children, and instead reserved them for the few remaining Tutsi men who put up resistance elsewhere.

I lay buried under the bodies throughout the night, drifting in and out of consciousness. The militia had started killing around 3 or 4 pm on April 26th, 1994, which was an otherwise regular spring sunny day. As the morning of the next day approached, it was still half dark. Tucked between those corpses, I heard a small voice whispering my name. It was my sister – she was softly calling out the names of my siblings and myself, checking to see if anyone was still alive. I could see her left arm holding her neck, which was nearly severed from a blow by a machete or other sharp weapon. She was the sole living figure amidst the hundreds of lifeless bodies sprawled on the floor as far as I could see – the rest was total silence and a heavy smell of fresh, coagulated blood.

Miraculously, she had survived. She asked me in Kinyarwanda, “Uracyariho?”, which means “Are you still alive?” I nodded, and she said, “Tugende” (Let’s go). She then pulled me from the pile of corpses, helping me escape with her through a broken back window before the killers returned. She knew the Hutus would come back as soon as daylight came to finish off any surviving Tutsi and dispose of the bodies.

During that harrowing time, my sister told me I had to pose as a girl to increase our chances of survival at the checkpoints searching for Tutsis. Girls were killed last, while boys were the primary target. She grabbed a small blue school dress, perhaps left behind after a victim was stripped of it, laying on the stairs as we exited. This typical uniform worn by young girls in Rwandan schools served me well – not only because my bloodied, stuck-on clothes would have given me away, but the dress also provided a girl’s identity that partly saved my life.

For the next three months after that fateful day of April 26th, I became a girl and took on another name. I don’t know how my sister came up with that plan, but it saved me. Even the good Hutu man who eventually hid us, from a different commune (county), did not realize I was a boy until the genocide ended. My sister watched over me constantly, ensuring I got used to my new name (taken from my older sister who was killed) and did not make any mistakes that could endanger our lives if they discovered I was actually a boy.

Once we escaped the City Hall compound-turned mass killing field, we embarked on a perilous 3-month journey, hiding and hunted like animals. This was before our miraculous survival, which came after the Hutu government’s defeat by the Patriotic Front (RPF) in mid-July 1994. This rebel group, composed mainly of exiled Tutsis who lived in the neighboring countries, put an end to the genocide.

The details of our survival—and of the guardian angels God placed in our path—are stories for another time. Recounting everything that happened after April 26, 1994, would fill an entire book. Later, we learned that a mass grave, dug near the mayor’s office, held hundreds of victims, including my mother and sisters. Today, a memorial stands just a few meters from that mass grave to honor those who lost their lives.

The Rwandan government meticulously coordinated this extermination campaign, deploying the military, police, militias, and even ordinary Hutu neighbors to systematically eliminate the Tutsi minority. At the time, we had no name for this crime—not one we yet knew. By the end of those 100 days of extermination all over the country, finally, the United Nations (UN) named this crime—genocide. In just 3 months, over 1 million Tutsi and moderate Hutus were slaughtered – the fastest genocide in recorded history, 3 times faster than the Holocaust. 5 out of every 6 Tutsis inside Rwanda in 1994 were murdered for no reason other than their Tutsi identity. My own family, including parents, siblings, and extended relatives, were among the victims.

The international community failed to intervene, with France even supporting the genocidal government. The United Nations withdrew peacekeeping troops at the start of the violence, and the USA said they had no interest in French-speaking Rwanda at the time. The Rwandan Patriotic Front eventually ended the genocide by defeating the authorities responsible.

Even today, decades later, the pain endures. Although the Rwandan genocide against the Tutsi is now history, for us, it remains a living trauma that can never fully heal. They say time heals all wounds, but I doubt there will ever be enough time to mend ones as deep as these. Ends.

By Albert Gasake April 7, 2019